


Perfection

by Everyotherday



Category: Original Work
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/F, Uhhh I'm just uploading this so I can send it to my friends easier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 00:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21519217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everyotherday/pseuds/Everyotherday
Summary: Uhhh I'm just uploading this here so I can send it to my friends easierI wrote this for an assignmentIt's like probs really triggering if you've struggled with an EDIt's gay eventually just not yet





	Perfection

My alarm startles me awake at 6:15 am. I slide out of my warm bed, crack open my window, and let the cool September air hit me. I’ve always done this; part one of my morning ritual. Part two involves tiptoeing across the creaky hardwood that leads from my bedroom to the bathroom, quiet enough not to wake my father who works the night shift. Part three requires three towels and a whole lot of self-control. I turn the shower on cold, then make my rounds. 

I use the first towel to cover the mirror that hangs over the sink, then make my way over to my mother’s “vanity”. She insists on calling it that, even though in reality it’s a dresser shoved against the wall across from the bath with a large mirror screwed into the back of it. I drape the second towel over it, set the third aside for myself, and turn the lights off. Only then do I allow myself to get undressed. 

I step into the shower and let the freezing water consume me. The human body expends calories to heat itself back up in cold temperatures. That’s what I focus on for the next fifteen minutes, while I shampoo and condition my hair and fumble around to shave under my arms in the darkness. Somehow, I manage it without cutting myself, so I shut the water off and finally climb out, reach for my towel, and wrap it around my shivering shoulders before making my way down the hall again. Back in my room, I put on my underwear and jeans under my towel and pull a sweatshirt over the top of it. Only then do I let the towel drop to the floor. It’s easier that way, safer, especially since light always filters in through my windows, even with the lights off and the curtains drawn. 

I have three texts from Vanessa waiting for me when I pick up my phone:

**Happy day 2, babe! One more to go! I’m down 3lbs since yesterday, so 8lbs in total. Lemme know when you weigh in!**

**Don’t forget to take those vitamins I gave you**

The third is a picture. She’s standing in her underwear in front of her bedroom mirror, her right arm raised up to take the shot. Her red hair is pulled up in a bun, her makeup is as flawless as ever, and there’s a glimmering smile on her face. I can count every bone of her ribcage. Her manicured nails are digging into the gap between her waist and her right hip. 

I should return the favor; I know she wants me to. I inch my jeans down below my hips, lift up the front of my sweatshirt, and open the camera app. But when my reflection flashes onto the screen, all I can do is throw the phone back onto my bed. My legs quake and my stomach drops and my breath goes ragged. 

I can’t do what she wants of me. I can’t. Her fixation on the perfection of her body isn’t something I can replicate. Mine is an abomination in comparison. It must be, and I believe that so strongly that I can’t look. I can never look. And I don’t want her to either. 

So instead of taking the picture, I shoot off a text:

**I’m so proud of you! I weighed in at 98 this morning. I’ll take progress pictures at 94.**

When I go downstairs, I’m greeted with the smell of food. My mom is in the kitchen, and she offers me a warm smile from the doorway.

“Morning, Paige! I made bacon and eggs for breakfast.”

I grab my backpack from where it sits on one of the dining room chairs, “Thanks, but I don’t have time. Woke up late. If I stop to eat, I’ll miss the bus.”

“It’s a good thing I put yours in a wrap, then.” She says, following me to the front door. “Take it with you, you can eat it on the way.”

I don’t have any other choice, really, especially with the way she’s looking at me, so I take it from her. The grease from the bacon seeps through the tortilla shell and napkin. It leaks onto my fingers. “Thanks, mom,” one hand on the doorknob, I lean down to kiss her on the cheek, “you’re the best.”

She wishes me a good day as I make my way outside, the September air permeating my sweatshirt almost immediately. Halfway between home and the bus stop, I toss the wrap into a nearby bush.

_____

By the time I get to school, I’m thankfully much more composed. I wait for Vanessa at our usual spot near the entrance. I don’t have a car, so I’m always earlier than her thanks to the bus system. I’m scrolling through Instagram and chewing on an antacid when she softly tugs on my ponytail from behind me.

“Okay, your legs in those jeans are to  _ die for _ .” She says, making her way around to face me, “Seriously, I’d give anything to have your thigh gap.” She presses a thermos of green tea into my hands, just like every other day. It’s scalding against my skin, but I take a sip anyway. 

“I’ll trade you my legs for your hips.” I reply with a smile. 

“You’ve got yourself a deal. Speaking of which…”

She hands me her own thermos for a moment, slings her backpack around, and pulls a tube of Chapstick out of the front pocket. It’s hollow inside, instead filled with a half dozen light blue capsules. “Mikey gave these to me this morning, stole them from his mom’s shit. Open up.”

“What is it?”

“Just take it, I’ll explain on the way to class.”

So I listen. I open my mouth, Vanessa gingerly places two pills on my tongue, and I chase them down with tea. She takes back her thermos and does the same, then slips the tube back into her bag. 

On our way to class, she explains that the pills are meant to boost metabolism and, more importantly, suppress hunger. I’m not as keen on popping pills as her, but I can’t pretend I’m not thankful; day two of these fasts are always the worst. Day three is mostly nausea and a sense of accomplishment; but before that comes hunger headaches, a constantly growling stomach, cramping, dizziness, the whole lot. The desire to break the rules is strongest on day two. I’ll take any measures I need to get through it. 

“Do you want me to pay for the ones I took?” I ask once we get to The Crossroads- where the school hallways splits in two. Her class to the left, mine to the right. She just laughs.

“Paige, I didn’t pay for these. You don’t have to when your dealer has a crush on you. You just have to… I don’t know, flirt a little.”

“You know, that is the least surprising thing you’ve ever told me.” I deadpan. 

“Oh come on, lighten up.” She pokes my cheek, which against my wishes brings a smile to my face, “It doesn’t actually bother you, does it?”

“I guess not. It just seems kinda bitchy to lead someone on like that when he doesn’t have a chance, that’s all. But it’s not like I can-” God, how do I put this? “I’m not your girlfriend. I don’t get a say in who you flirt with.”

“Ouch.” She snaps, anger flaring up her cheeks; guess I’d be pretty hurt too if I was in her shoes. I’m thinking about taking it back and apologizing, but then she just shrugs, her face returning to its regular olive tone, “Life is the pursuit of happiness, Paige. Mine just happens to involve drugs, and if flirting a little gets you stuff for free, why change?”

“Whatever.” Slip in a giggle and a well-intended eye roll, and the mood is back to normal, “You ready for the quote of the day?” She grins widely and bobs her head. “Okay. Hold out your arm.”

She does as she’s told and pulls up her sleeve while I extract an ultra-fine sharpie from my back pocket. The quote of the day things was my idea; something to look at to keep us going, especially when we’re apart. I place her hand palm-up in mine and put the quote into writing across her forearm. 

_ I don’t care if it hurts, I want to have control. I want the perfect body, I want the perfect soul. _

When I’m finished, she looks it over before copying it onto me. Then she smiles at me one last time, gets up on her toes, and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

_____

We have open campus. A lot of students will walk to one of the fast food places nearby, others will drive to better ones if they have a car. Vanessa and I do neither; we hike up the hill behind the school to the woods that sit at the top of it and bust open a pack of American Spirits. 

“Oh, guess what?” She says, breaking the silence after her third or fourth drag.

“What’s up?”

“You know that picture I sent you this morning? I posted it on Tumblr last night and it had five- _ hundred _ reblogs when I checked this morning, and I got thirty-six new followers.” She paused to take another drag, “It blew the fuck up, dude!”

“It was a good photo.”

“Right? You should go reblog it.”

I toss my cigarette butt onto the ground and put it out with the toe of my sneaker, then grab another from the pack and light it up. I pull hard on it, then look Vanessa in the eye. I can’t tell if I’m smirking or grimacing, or some highly uncomfortable mix of both. “My account got deactivated, so no can do.”

“Are you kidding me?” I try not to laugh at her shock, I really do. But I can’t help it. “That’s bullshit. There’s no good reason why they’re going around shutting down accounts. It’s, like, it’s gotta be an infringement on our rights or something.”

“’Nessa, the whole Pro-Ana community is against the site’s guidelines. We’re all just playing a game to see how long we can keep it up.”

She starts to say something but hesitates. She knows I’m right. Girls encouraging other girls to starve themselves, even if they’re going to anyway, is a pretty dark thing to do by most people’s standards. It’s dark by my standards. But then again, here I am. 

The ten-minute bell rings. We both short our cigarettes and put them back into the pack, which I then slip into my bag, and make our way back down the hill.

_____

I don’t see Vanessa again until our last class: English with Mr. Monroe, a burly old man with a balding head and an obsession with making us read our essays aloud at the front of class. Considering most of his students haphazardly throw something together on whatever topic he’s chosen the night before, it’s always an… interesting time. 

We’re light as feathers as we flitter in side by side. It feels that way, at least. The sensations you get during these fasts is unlike anything else. It’s like you’re lighter than air, like you’ll lift up at any moment and float into the stratosphere. We sit down next to each other and she rests her head on her arms. She mumbles something I don’t quite catch with how much my head is spinning, so I just smile.

“I said I’m hungry, Paigie.” She says a little louder, careful still to make sure no one overhears us, although everyone around has a pretty good idea of this thing we’ve got going on anyway. “Those pills Mikey gave me are bullshit. I don’t know if I can keep this up until Wednesday.”

“You can, and you will. You always do.” I take her hand in mine and squeeze it, “I saw this thing on Pinterest the other day that might help, too.”

That perks her up a bit. “Really? Tell me.”

“I haven’t tried it yet, but apparently if you put salt on your tongue and press an ice cube to it, it’ll burn. Like frostbite. And touching it makes it worse, so-”

“So you won’t want to eat. Jesus, that’s genius.”

Mr. Monroe chooses that moment to come into the room, bringing our conversation to a screeching halt as he sets up his make-shift podium for the first presenter. We present in alphabetical order, so I’ll be the 6 th person to go, way ahead of Vanessa. I’m actually pretty excited about this one. We were instructed to decide who was really at fault for all of the disastrous consequences in Macbeth. Most people, I’m sure, will decide between Lady Macbeth or the man himself. I, on the other hand, blame all parties equally, and at the same time no one at all. 

One by one, I’m proven right. The only exception is the third student to step up to the podium, a boy with big round eyes and a stomach to match who blames the witches for putting it all into place at the very beginning. His essay is the only one I pay avid attention to.

All too soon it’s my turn. “Ms. Connelly, come on up!” Mr. Monroe booms. I shuffle through my papers one last time, gather them up, and take a deep breath. I look over at Vanessa one last time.

“You got this.” She tells me, smiling encouragingly.

I stand up from my seat. Vanessa screams my name, and everything goes dark.


End file.
